


The Light of a New Day

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [82]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Reunions, we wrote an AU of our AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: A short and sweet fluff piece - alternate beginning(without the angst and emotional whiplash of the original) of What Can Be Mended! Featuring art by the ever-wonderfuldefensetrain!
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [82]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	The Light of a New Day

_It should be raining,_ Quentin thinks.

He's standing in front of the giant windows of the loft where they spent the past two months trying to find a way to save Eliot and stop the Monster, staring out the window into bright sunshine, at the people of New York City moving about their lives below. He can barely think past the dissonance. His whole world is uncertain, right now; the people he cares the most for are fighting for their lives. Shouldn’t the rest of the world be holding its breath?

Quentin swallows, closes his eyes, and presses the heels of his palms against them, hard enough to make stars burst across the back of his eyelids. Dimly, he's aware of footsteps approaching, and when he looks up, he frowns, glances away just as quickly, surging defeat leaving a bitter, sour taste like bile in the back of his throat. "Fuck off," he says shortly, barely more than a mutter. "Can't you give me five fucking minutes to myself?"

"Quentin," the Monster says, and his voice trembles. "It's me."

"Right," Quentin scoffs. "Seriously, now is _not_ the time for one of your games. Fuck off."

The Monster makes a movement like he's going to reach out; he doesn't, but Quentin flinches all the same, and he looks up in spite of himself. The Monster is wearing an over-sized white sweater, cableknit and chunky and soft-looking, the sleeves slipping down over his hands, and jeans. He's barefoot, his hair damp like he's just showered and cascading in soft waves almost to his shoulders. There's a pain in his eyes Quentin has never seen before.

"No games, Q," he says, very quietly. "I swear."

Quentin swallows, shakes his head minutely before his gaze returns to the window. "Just - Stay there, sit on the couch, whatever. I don't care, anymore."

The Monster sighs, and for a moment Quentin thinks he's actually going to walk away - but then he takes a few steps forward, gingerly, like he's stiff and achy, and puts himself in Quentin's line of sight once more. He stares at Quentin expectantly for several long moments, but Quentin doesn't look at him. And then he starts to speak.

"I grew up on a farm," he says, "in Indiana. My dad was a homophobic, xenophobic asshole, and so were my brothers. My mother was just scared of him, I think, but that's no excuse. I grew up scared in my own home. Scared they would really see me, find out what I was, and hate me. Of course I think they always knew. Logan Kinnear knew, and he tortured me for it. I killed him when I was fourteen, and I managed to run all the way home before I threw up. As I got older, I started to..." He clears his throat. "I started to sneak around. I got fucked for the first time when I was fifteen, outside behind his family's barn. It hurt. The guy wouldn't look at me afterwards. He was disgusted with me. I was disgusted with myself. But I kept doing it. My dad beat me to within an inch of my life when he caught me with a different boy a few years later; I thought he actually had killed the guy, for a while. I left home when I was eighteen. And, well, you know how much of a shitshow I was after that. Drugs, alcohol, sex. I was hollow. I didn't really start getting myself together until I met Bambi, and even then..."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and flexes his hands in a restless motion. He starts again.

"But you. You were the sweetest kid. You felt so much, for everyone. When you were little, you used to cry if you heard another kid crying in the grocery store, because you were sad that they were sad. You still feel like that, sometimes. Your parents divorced, and it wasn't your fault, and it wasn't theirs, but you lost yourself, a little." His voice softens, speaking so that only Quentin can hear even though the rest of the apartment is silent. "You were first hospitalised when you were sixteen, and you cried yourself to sleep the first night, not because you tried to take your own life but because you failed. But you found the strength to carry on. Your dad and Julia and-- and Fillory, helped you to find a reason to fight again. And you've been fighting ever since."

The breath that Quentin draws in is shaky, and when he looks up, his eyes are shining with unshed tears - but he doesn't say anything, not yet. He can't find the words, even in his own head, to articulate what he's feeling after hearing all of that. And clearly, it's not over yet.

"It wasn't all doom and gloom, though," the man Quentin can't bring himself to name continues. "I was excellent in my production of _Les Mis_ , and you had Julia to help you escape. She talked with you for hours about Fillory, and helped you make up your own stories; she--" He laughs. "She made up that ridiculous dance with you to that song I can't remember. And we both made it to college, though God only knows how. We made it to Brakebills, and when I met you, oh, I knew my life was going to change forever." He takes a breath, his own eyes shimmering, and goes on. "Quentin, I know you inside and out. I've loved you for the better part of a century. I'm ready to be brave now."

Quentin stares at the man in front of him for a long moment before he draws in a ragged breath, reaches up to wipe at his eyes before the tears gathered there can fall. "It's really you?" he asks, voice barely more than a tattered whisper.

"Yeah, Q," Eliot murmurs. He gives Quentin the most heartbreaking smile, but he still doesn't reach out. "It's me."

Quentin hesitates for another moment, bites his lip before he reaches up, touches Eliot's cheek like he's afraid his hand will go right through him. After a moment, the touch firms, turns into his palm cupping Eliot's face. "I thought - I. I wasn't sure if Julia... But she did. She managed to - to save you."

Eliot closes his eyes, and reaches up to touch Quentin's hand, to hold it against his cheek. "Margo said she hasn't woken up yet," he says. "Q, I'm so sorry."

"If you woke up, she'll wake up," Quentin says, but there's still a tremble in his voice. "She is a goddess, after all."

Eliot laughs, though it's a little choked. "In more ways than one," he says. He sighs, and a few tears slip free as he gives Quentin a watery smile. "It's so good to see you."

Quentin’s own expression softens, his thumb shifting to sweep the tear away. "It's good to see _you,_ El," he says, quiet.

Eliot nods, swallowing hard, and his other hand comes up to rest against Quentin's cheek, the touch reverent. "Okay," he says. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to just-- listen, okay?"

"Okay," Quentin murmurs.

"Okay." Eliot blows out a breath, seeming to steel himself before he speaks again. "You've always been the bravest of the two of us - but that day especially, after we remembered the mosaic. You were honest, you-- you asked me for what you wanted, and I pushed you away, because I was a fucking coward. I was so wrong, Q. And I've always known it. I had to go through the memory of that moment before I could shake the Monster and talk to you in the park, because it's the biggest regret of my fucking life. And I promised myself then that if I ever found my way back to you, I'd be brave, too."

"'Brave'?" Quentin asks, voice quiet and expression soft, open.

"I'm in love with you," Eliot says, simple and honest. "I can't lie to you or myself anymore. I'm so in love with you I feel like I might die. And I know I've probably missed my shot and fucked everything up, but you deserve to know. Everything I said under that archway was just cruel and bullshit, and I--" He squeezes Quentin's hip, gives him a helpless look. "I love you, Q."

Quentin just looks at him for a moment, eyes wide, before a slow smile steals over his expression. "I love you, too," he says. "You haven't - missed your shot, or anything like that. I just spent _months_ trying to save you, El. I think that says a lot."

Eliot laughs, unable to help the grin that steals over his face. "I guess it does," he allows. He turns his face into Quentin's hand, presses a kiss to his palm. "God. Please say I can kiss you."

” _Fuck_ yes, you can kiss me,” Quentin laughs, reaching out with his other hand to pull Eliot closer. “Get down here.”

Eliot sighs, and his hand finds its favourite spot on the back of Quentin's neck, his thumb brushing tenderly against his cheek, his ear. He takes a moment just to look at Quentin, something in his gaze that Quentin hasn't seen in this lifetime, and then he ducks down to bring their mouths together.

Quentin meets him halfway, relaxing into the kiss in a way that speaks to the tension he's carried for months. His hand shifts, slides down to rest on Eliot's shoulder, and when they finally part, he's smiling. "You should wear sweaters like this more often," he murmurs. "Looks comfortable."

Eliot grimaces, but his helpless grin returns soon enough. "I don't even know where Margo found this, but it's the only thing she could produce that wasn't a graphic tee."

Quentin's expression twists. "Well, I'm glad she found it, then. I... might've actually thrown something at you if you'd been in a shirt like that." He sighs, lets his fingers trace down one of the strips of cabling, and looks back up at Eliot. "I get why you said no, back at the altar," he says quietly. "Still hurt, but. I get being scared. I'm just glad we’ve got this chance now."

"I'm not going to waste it this time," Eliot promises, his gaze intent on Quentin's face. "I'm going to spend however long you'll let me making this up to you."

Quentin smiles, leaning up for another kiss. "Just might let you have the rest of my life," he says. "Are you hungry? Alice should be getting back soon, I can ask her to pick something up."

Eliot freezes. "Alice," he repeats. "Do I need to worry about that? Is this the other shoe dropping?"

Quentin blinks. "What?"

"This is all amazing," Eliot says, smoothing a hand over Quentin's shoulder, "and I feel like we're finally on the same page. But Margo mentioned that something was going on with you and Alice, and if that's still--" He shudders. "I can't steal her boyfriend again, Q."

"You aren't," Quentin hastens to reassure Eliot. "I swear, it's not - " He stops, takes a deep breath. "I'm always going to care for Alice, and her for me. But we've figured out that we don't... work... romantically. It's always a mess."

"Oh," Eliot sighs, visibly relieved. "So it's not-- So this is--?"

Quentin shifts, reaches for Eliot's hand so he can tangle their fingers together. "She's living here for right now because it's where she's lived since we started trying to take down the Monster. What’s ‘going on’ with us is that she and I are figuring out how we work as friends, and _you_ and I... We've got time to figure out how to work in the here and now."

Eliot pulls Quentin closer, and leans in until their lips brush. "As more than friends, right?" he murmurs, a smile curling his mouth. "Just to clarify. Because I want to be with you."

Quentin huffs a laugh, closes the scant distance between them to kiss Eliot softly, the move familiar in a body that's never done it before. "Yes, El, as more than friends," he says, smiling, when he pulls back, and it seems like he can't help his next words. "I love you."

Eliot laughs into the next kiss. "I love you, too."

They stand there for another moment, wrapped in each other, before Quentin finally sighs. "Let's sit down," he suggests. "I'll text Alice, ask her to pick up some food; Josh stress-cooked everything in the kitchen. And then after we eat, we can go lie down together."

"Do you think we could lie down now?" Eliot asks hopefully. "I'm fucking exhausted."

Quentin smiles, soft and fond. "Sure," he says, giving Eliot's hand an affectionate squeeze. He steps back, tugs on Eliot's hand to lead him towards his bedroom. Eliot had been recovering in Quentin's room, since Quentin himself had been too messed-up worrying about him and Julia to sleep there. Now, however, they both step through the doorway, separating only long enough to climb onto the bed. Quentin presses himself into Eliot's arms as soon as they're horizontal, wraps his own around Eliot's waist and sighs, contented. "I've missed this."

"Me too," Eliot says, and presses a kiss to Quentin's brow. "I'm sorry I was such a dick, Q."

"You going to keep being a dick about the same things?"

Eliot squeezes Quentin tighter. "No," he says. "I promise."

"Well, then I think I can deal with the rest of your general.... dickishness," Quentin teases, pulling back just enough to tilt his head in invitation.

Eliot obliges him easily, dipping in to give him a sweet kiss. "You're too good for me," he murmurs into it. "But thank you."

”Nothing to thank me for,” Quentin sighs, kissing Eliot again. “Get some rest, El.”

Eliot's eyes are already closing, but he manages to sigh out a soft, "Love you, Q," before he falls asleep.

Quentin smiles, shifting so he can press a gentle kiss to Eliot’s forehead. “Love you, too.”


End file.
